


Pyramids

by KennyCosgrove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KennyCosgrove/pseuds/KennyCosgrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a dabbling I did of Prostitute!Alastair AU I've been thinking about. I might incorporate more into it, this is just a reflection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyramids

The night was long and he was tired.  
Catharsis was merely a word now, and what might withhold any sort of “ca - thar- sis” (n) would always always always be nothing more than a definition of the word. Definition without action.  
The night was long and he was tired.  
He thought about children wrapped up in their beds - the privileged ones with mothers and fathers that held them tightly to their chests like kevlar, their security deposits and their claims on taxes being their righteous legend. Blind and easily influenced, he thought about them, their nice ass lawns and three square meals, and thought about their catharsis- getting on the bus after school, coming home to their mother’s open arms, laying them down to rest at night, to wake the next day with the same routine. Maybe they weren’t all that different, but he would wish them well.  
The night was long and he was tired.  
The Businessman. The Closet-Case. The Criers. The Drunks. The Talkers. The Corrupt. The Priests. The Cheapskates. The Husbands. The Fathers. The Secret Keepers. The Philosophers The Government Conspirators. The Secret Service Agents. The Psychologists. The Apologisers. The Ones Who Keep Their Kids In A Car Outside. The Romantics. The Delusional. The Pity. The End is Nigh and Alastair wondered what his catharsis was.  
The night was long and he was tired.  
They never ask how someone comes into this situation. As many as he meets he wonders if they would ask him, How did you find this opportunity? Not that he could possibly know how to answer. The Psychologists could say it was insecurities, some childhood trauma, some terrible horrible repressed memory when in actuality he didn’t even know himself. He was just there. But he would try and try and try again at anything that could be a semblance of some sort of “normality” to man and humanity and life but here he was wasting away, fucked and being fucked until the kitchen was closed and there was nothing left to spare, dead into the night. He’d watch the horizon at the end of the night as the sun would peek up, checking in on him. In the end, everyone always left (not that there was anyone to begin with) - but he would always have the sun and the moon to look after him.  
The night was long and he was tired.  
Coffee shops were so so busy at the end of the night when the morning came. Sleep was a privilege to him and finding time was but a dream. Coffee shops were a sanctuary- no one knew who he was, where he had been, where he came from, he was left entirely and utterly alone as he watched and evaluated everyone for the hour he found to himself at the end of every night and the rise of every morning. Making up stories about the poor souls alone and left alone and the angry white men rushing themselves to work, veiled by the opportunities they found themselves in waiting to fuck and be fucked once every couple of months by some frail. He recognized them, sometimes. Alastair was very good at remembering faces. And yet none of them ever had stopped to recognize him. Not that it mattered. It was better that way. The entirety of them were vicious, terrible men. Alastair just happened to be the easiest thing they could find themselves to divulge unto to find themselves along their way and vanish. Devils getting away from their sins and their adultery and their malicious behavior in the form of a thin, six-foot-three-i’ll-try-anything-once poor fucking sap Alastair and living their happy privileged lives without consequence. And how big damn lucky they were, in this coffee shop, on this Monday morning, on their way to work, just as he was.  
The night was long and he was tired.  
And he had twenty minutes to himself between cycles. Twenty minutes to bathe, to vomit, to dress, to undress, to sleep, to put on a show, to tie himself up, to vomit again, to clean his nose from bleeding. A fix was always nice, it kept him going, if anything. The stars were always brighter, the moon was closer, the dim lights in the room humming louder. A fix was always nice, numbing him, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he was bent over a bed, a ringing in his ear with sweat dripping onto his back, condom wrappers spat onto his chest, calloused hands holding his face down into the mattress, smothering him - a fix was always nice, it helped him disappear, made the room dark, made him feel alone. The money was on the dresser, slipped into a mason jar that was cleaned out every night at every sunrise, and every twenty minutes a fix was always nice to start again.  
The night was long and he was tired.  
He dreamt sometimes, killing and slaughter were nothing new, torture. He dreamed he was in a dungeon, draped in an off white apron, latex gloves on his hands and a power drill in his left - it was different every time. He could never see their face when he had these dreams, not that it mattered, they were his to destroy and manipulate as he saw fit. Sometimes he ate them, sometimes he set them on fire, sometimes he severed their limbs, sometimes he cut their tendons, sometimes he pissed on them, sometimes he would scream at them and did nothing else. He cut their faces off and bore out their skulls like jack-o-lanterns and he would wake up to an alarm on his dresser, his twenty minutes were up.  
The night was long and he was tired.  
There were regulars, of course, he had trouble remembering their names, but he knew who they were, what they wanted, what they came for. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t his job to remember but he was kind. Even with all of the flesh and sweat and come and blood and coke he remembered, sometimes. He wondered how badly he could have wandered so far from normality that names were so foreign to him. It didn’t seem like it mattered to them, they came to get what they wanted and left. He wondered if they ever remembered his name. But they always left, so why should they?  
The night was long and he was tired and there was far too much time and nothing to show for it.


End file.
